


Out Of The Night

by Anonymous



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Civil War Team Captain America, Drugged Sex, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Gang Rape, HYDRA Trash Party, Homophobic Language, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Incest, Misogyny, Other, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Racist Language, Rape By Proxy, Restraints, Sibling Incest, Suicidal Thoughts, Team as Family, The Raft Prison (Marvel)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-11 14:26:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8987128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Wanda knew this was coming.(Also, see end of story notes for prompt)





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is the same story as "illusion Spin Her Net" but listed elsewhere.

     

### Work Text:

Wanda is floating until they haul her down.

The advantage of the drugs, injected into her throat twice a day, is how they fuzz out details and blur out time. Wanda's floating on a high, awash in limitless darkness, dreaming of Pietro's heartbeat, when her scalp catches fire under a rough hand jerking her hair. She yelps and a too-tight grip brands her shoulder, hauling her forward, bumping her across the floor.

Her men are yelling. Her teammates, Sam, Scott, Clint, they're yelling, muffled behind their cell walls as they pound and protest uselessly, uselessly, as if they've never been caged, any of them. Wanda just laughs, thick and garbled in her mouth, as she's dragged an unmeasurable distance and thrown over a plastic crate, its edge pressing into her belly. She's been caged before, trapped with her brother, alone in the dark. She's been expecting this every day and night since Stark left them to Ross's hard-handed soldiers. She knew, she knew.

Hard fingers raking down her backside and air over her bared skin, her pants and panties jerked away, her teammates screaming harshly as lower laughter cackles around her, as broad hands crush her down on the crate. She laughs into a scream, she kicks in a daze, a punch slams her forehead into the box, comets arc across her sight. Wanda knew this was coming.

Hard hands pressing the air from her lungs as they pin her, shoving her legs apart, landing flat-palmed smacks to her inner thighs. Rough cloth-covered thighs between hers and Wanda howls from her gut, echoing off the ceiling. This is how they broke her open and released her power, long years ago. She knew it was coming.

The first man makes the mistake of sliding his hands up under the straightjacket as he grips her waist, nudging his penis against her ass, lining himself up --

\--she is drugged and unfocused but with skin against skin she doesn't need to aim. She slams agony into him, digs a thousand hooks into his psyche and wrenches every bad memory to the surface. He falls back howling, the others cry out curses, and blows hammer down on her, fists, sticks, boots. She rolls side to side, choking on bursts of pain, laughing, laughing, laughing. This is how she stopped them then. This is why they won't dare now.

A shout and the beating pauses. Another as a fist resumes its grip on her hair keeping her tethered. She coughs and spits garbled curses in Sokovian, daring the next, the next, the next. Daring them to touch her again.

Perhaps they'll beat her to death instead. Mayhap Pietro will come for her.

And then a full-chested voice rings out and the prison, the world, goes silent. Echoes die away as Wanda belatedly comprehends. "Make one of those bastards breed her. The little bitch won't attack her fellow traitors. Probably."

For the first time fear wakes within her, cold coils squirming in her belly. Not her teammates, her friends, Clint who took her in, Sam who's steadied her, Scott and his enduring cheer. " _Ne_ ," she moans, "no no no," until she can force her teeth to dent her lip, pinning her foolish mouth closed. But the guards heard her useless cry, their laughter booms over her head as a glove-smooth hand smacks her rump and boots clamp down on her aching ankles and she must stop thrashing. _Stop,_ she tells herself, _stay still_ , but it's not until she uses's Pietro's voice that she can collapse, limp over the crate, her scalp and calves burning from useless effort.

Wanda remembers, wavering like sight through tears, how she and Pietro were forced to intimacies, in the second group home as the price for staying together, under Strucker's watchful eye as he wondered aloud if they'd breed true. She remembers his hands, gentle even as they fumbled, his mind focused on their love within the flickering rage. She remembers, her eyes pressed shut, her cheek seamed by the crate's edge, how she opened her mind and let him in like no other.

Wanda had wondered, haltingly, cautiously, secretly to her own soul, if she might with Viz, what it would be to wrap herself in the warm metallic silk of his mind and the warm android smoothness of his body. She had wondered. She should have known better. She should have known.

"Line 'em up by dick size," crashes through her thoughts. Men have been shouting around her, laughing, protesting.

Socked feet drag on the textured metal floor. " -- can't shoot any of us," in Clint's voice..

Further back, a gun cocks. "The General will be so sad," says the loud clear voice, "so very disappointed, to hear former Staff Sergeant Wilson tried to escape."

"And got his coon ass shot," a reedy voice puts in. Clint snarls wordlessly, Scott makes a sharp sound of dismay, Sam is ominously silent.

"What's'a'matter, Barton?" jeers a third voice. "Little bitch's young and fresh. A bit skinny but nice ass," as another slap reverberates through Wanda's bottom. "No one's that married."

"That right?" from the loud clear voice. "Thinking of your family? Maybe you don't have to take a turn if you let us know where they are." Wanda chokes as panic stabs through her, the farmhouse rising white surrounded by green in her memory, blackened burnt sticks in her fears. "You know the General needs to be sure your kids aren't being neglected. Considering their traitor dad."

The voices settle to snickering and heavy breaths. Wanda's heart pounds between her spine and breastbone. If she had any other secret to offer, to spare Clint this...

...he says nothing. Another voice says, "C'mon, sir, not even this asshole wants to fuck his own wife." The guards' coarse laughter rises again, sandpapery in her ears and down her flayed nerves. _Shut up,_ she wants to snap, and grits her teeth together, swallows around the lump in her throat, takes as deep a breath as she can pressed down to the crate. This is going to happen, inevitable as a battle, and all she can do is get herself and her teammates through it.

Stumbling footsteps and swirling air, and Clint's "Get your damn foot off her," comes from behind. Despite her efforts at calm, Wanda tenses all down her spine.

The mocking laughter's unsurprising but least the boots don't press harder on her ankles. "Get to it," booms in the clear voice as thinner cloth brushes her legs, and Clint thumps down. "Let's see that famous aim."

Clint growls low, as if restraining a snide reply, and the tiniest bubble of pride pushes against the heavy blanket of her fear. "Get off her hair," he says instead, his hands settling lightly on her jacketed waist. "Let me turn her over."

"Nice try, Barton," is the answer, and Clint huffs softly, as if hit. "Like we'd let you get at those straps. This little witch-puppy stays in her jacket, and you'd better stop dawdling or we'll see if a Maglite fits up her little cunt."

"And shoot Wilson," adds the reedy voice, directly overhead. Its owner really seems to dislike Sam. Wanda is beginning to especially dislike him. She blinks, seeing only her own hair and a blue-black blur beyond. If she weren't drugged and disoriented, she could focus, pull his feet out from beneath him, pull his firearm from his hands--

Clint's hands shock her out of that thought, his callouses whispering along the skin of her hips. His mind washes up against hers, drenched in sadness and simmering with banked fury, and under all else, dark and sticky, his self-directed rage. She's his windfall, his young teammate to protect, not to desire, not to _hurt_ , and he thinks he's failed --

"Clint," Wanda manages, though she slurs and her cheek drags along the tacky plastic. "Hey."

"Hey," he answers, voice thick. She can feel his throat tight, his eyes burning, like her own. He leans in over her, pressing to the seam of her lower lips, and she can feel him, neither fully hard nor limp, she can feel the formless apology in his mind.

She would touch his wrists if she could. She would pin all their tormentors to the ceiling and rip the roof open to set them free, if she could. She exhales, and goes limp, and does her best to enfold him in forgiveness, in acceptance, like her red radiance.

Someone makes an impatient throat-sound. "I didn't say rub off, Barton," booms the clear-voiced leader. "I want to watch you nail her, and you better not pull your punches."

Wanda winces, remembering her own words, thrown back at them now like vengeance. She feels Clint wince above her, pressed to her, as Natasha's red-framed beauty washes through both their minds on a tide of regret. She feels Clint's pained noise, deep in his throat, overlaying her own sob caught behind her teeth. "I'm sorry," he murmurs to her, taking his draw hand from her skin to grip the crate, and she can hear the rest as clearly as if he'd said it, _Sorry, so sorry, wanted to befriend you, give you a family, not to_ rape _you_...

"With me," Wanda chokes out. Words are difficult, all the more so under the heavy drag of the drugs, but she presses them into his consciousness, one by one. _Raped with me. By them. We're together._

Clint's arms tremble, his fingers shake on her skin. A sob rips through his next breath like paper tearing. But Wanda can feel him understand, just before he lets go to stroke himself. She can feel him feel her.

Clint grips her hip again and Wanda feels his sorrow tempered with fondness. He presses forward so slowly he trembles with it, nudging her open millimeter by millimeter, and the vile audience whoops and cheers, voices falling on her like blows. _Together,_ Wanda reminds herself, clinging to Clint's mind as she once clung to Pietro's, struggling against herself to relax and let him in.

Clint feels her wince, and pauses with just the head between her nether lips, thinking of pulling back altogether. His hand slides forward, down, fingertips along the margin of her belly. "I could..." he murmurs low, letting her figure out the rest. He could try to please her, make it better, for her sake, therefore for his.

Wanda pulls her mouth into a deliberate smile, though her cheek drags against the crate. She pulls her thoughts together, finding words to reassure him --

"Hey, what's the holdup?" booms over them, shivers through them both; Wanda's gasp crushes her chest on her arms, Clint's hand spasms on her hip. _No_ , she mouths to him, thinks to him. It wouldn't work, would only prolong this pain. _It's okay. No._

"Not okay," Clint grits out between his teeth, but he pushes forward, and someone whoops, and Wanda feels her blurry eyes stretch wide at the shoving, tugging sensation of being entered dry and unwilling. An aching moan rises in her throat and she bites her lip to drive it back, to overshadow one pain with another, squeezes her eyes shut and flexes her fingers inside their gloves. Clint exhales long and shuddering, thinking even as he sinks to the root that he's uncertain he can even complete this if all Wanda can do is endure him.

Perhaps she can speed this. Not bothering with words, Wanda offers Clint all the illusion she can produce, safety and a soft mattress, familiar sheets and --

He flinches from the thought. "No," he growls, and again, gently, "no," refusing her offer as she refused his.

"Uh, yeah!" calls the soldier pinning Wanda's left ankle. "Enough sweet nothings! Let's see some fucking!"

 _Could use a good example_ flickers through Clint's mind, defiant snideness followed hard by guilt, and Wanda lays the ghost of her hand on his. _I'm here with you, kid_ , he thinks, with the same warmth as the first time he hugged her. _Together._

 _Together,_ Wanda agrees, and braces as Clint tugs himself out, and breathes as he gets to it.

He sets a measured pace, and she keeps hold of her breathing and control, though her brain sloshes in her head and red lights flicker behind her leaking eyes. She watches him blank his mind with focus on pure physical movement, pushing away the jeers and hoots outside their tiny dented bubble, and digs herself in as best she can. But his movement is inside her and she can't not feel it, the uncomfortable cycling edge of a rising burn. She can't not feel the crate sticking to her wet face as she's shifted back and forth, back and forth. Shouts and curses and the pressure on her ankles batter at her attempted calm.

At least she's unsurprised. Orphanage or Hydra or these American soldiers, hostile aroused audiences are all alike.

But even as Clint drives himself closer and closer to the edge, they're getting to him too, denting his composure with their disgusting noise. He absently pets her hip to soothe them both until he realizes what he's doing, and self-conscious shame drags his head down, hanging over her almost close enough to see through her tumbled hair. A hoarse shout of, "Put your back into it!" sparks a memory of sly joy that slices through him now, and cuts Wanda open too. He curses under his breath, thinking so clearly how he can't, just until he realizes with mounting horror that he can, he _will_.

Clint's control breaks, his last few thrusts wild enough to thump her bruisingly against the crate, and as he comes with wet spurts inside her he sobs aloud over her, just once but too many, tears pattering _one two three four_ into her hair.

Wanda would speak but can only gasp. It's sticky and it hurts and Clint shudders like he's seizing and she can't comfort him anymore, she's too shaken herself, shivering as they rip him away from her and cool air washes into the ragged gap. She can't reach Clint, she's lost her composure, her teeth would chatter if she didn't clench them together; her chest heaves uncontrollably between her own weight and her arms pinned against the crate, as she gasps airlessly and tears stream from her eyes, soaking into her hair.

The times before were horrible but at least she hadn't been this helpless. At least she'd had Pietro, her twin, her life. She shouldn't want Clint back but at least she wasn't alone.

The soldiers are jeering, mocking Clint as "a crybaby" and "so tender", and Wanda doesn't hear him at all. "Hope Lang'll give us a better show," gets a yelp from Scott and heavy footsteps stumbling towards her, and a fresh cold sweat breaks out down Wanda's back. She wants to scream _no_ , to squirm away and hide in a crack, to scour every soldier's mind with a sheet of red fire.

She can do none of these. She is helpless. She swallows hard on a sob, choking it down to quiet, and the hand in her hair shakes her. "You awake there, bitchpuppy?" asks the booming leader, and Wanda defiantly presses her lips shut. "Relaxing between turns?" She holds herself still, until a sudden blow to her waist makes her cough up a cry.

"Stop that." Scott's voice wobbles, he falls with an "ow" between her thighs, landing on her back, jamming her belly against the crate's edge. Wanda gasps between pain and searing pain, and Scott babbles out, "Sorry, sorry, I'm so sorry," and if skin could just touch bare skin at least they could connect.

Waves of pain rippling through her composure, Wanda squirms beneath Scott's struggles, towards him, away, and the guards laugh all around them. "Oooh, little cunt's eager!" calls the reedy bigot. "C'mon, Lang, give her what she wants!"

"None of us want -t-!" Scott's fingers brush Wanda's thigh, she grabs for his mind, he stutters as he feels her there.

 _Shh,_ she tries to tell him, and where to put his hands, which flutter uncertainly over the jacket, over her skin, until he presses one lightly on the small of her back. Over them, the leader says, "Sorry, jailbird, you don't get to put it up her ass," and Scott snorts.

"Meatheads," he says clearly enough to echo off the walls around him, expecting to be hit for it, imagining ridiculous chivalry such as shielding Wanda with his body. A moment's footsteps and his pride congeals into dread, alarm flaring, and Wanda dizzily glimpses Clint through his eyes, shoved into his cell at rifle point.

"Get it up, Shrink Boy," says the leader, "or we'll redecorate your room with the inside of Barton's head."

"Wow, sexy," Scott mutters over nausea Wanda shares. "Maybe that kind of thing gets _you_ off," as he gently rubs his thumb over Wanda's spine, an apology in his strokes, "but we normal people enjoy stuff like consent and comfort and a lot fewer guns."

That's met with some snickers and some snarls and a boot tightening on Wanda's ankle as the leader says, "Well, we real men enjoy stuff like the kind of shapely ass this little bitch's been sitting on, and apparently her cunt made a grown man cry, so let's see what you think of it."

"I think this is shitty inmate management all around," Scott mutters, but he's looking down at Wanda as she shivers in pain, trying her best not to cry out. "Oh," he shouts, looking around, dismayed anger clenching in his chest, "okay, okay, ease up! You don't have to hurt her, all right! Or him! I'll do it. Just don't hurt anyone." There's nasty snickering as the boot releases its pressure, and Scott leans in, whispering, "Hey, hey, okay?"

 _Okay_ Wanda tells him, though her thoughts wobble like a voice and she feels his answering grimace. His hands are softer than Clint's, clumsier as he pets her hips, but just as earnestly gentle. His regretful apology overflows all around his _sorry_ , and she tries her best to send him acceptance and manages at least enough fatalism to win an easing in his chest, a sad little chuckle in his thoughts as he reaches to stroke himself hard.

 _This is hopeless,_ slides across his mind, over a deeper wish for Hope, and Wanda hears the name in the thought. The soldiers yell, her ears and ankles hurt, and she's dizzy and aching and tired, she wants this over. She amplifies Scott's thought of Hope, tall and slender with dark hair swinging around her chin and sparkling eyes, letting him see what she's doing, not that she could hide her mind's clumsy lurches. Wordlessly, she offers him the option.

Sucking in an eager breath, Scott grasps the mirage, grabs hold of her, pushing into Wanda with his mind full of Hope. Flesh smacks against flesh and the expanding ache ripples through Wanda, pushing a cry up her throat, rattling her teeth against each other. She clings to Scott's mind, to his dream, but he's a thousand miles away with a silky head pressed to his shoulder and velvet skin shifting against his. He's left her alone with the shouting guards, in her wracked body. She's alone after all, alone and invaded and crumbling thrust by thrust, and she can't, she can't ...

She scrabbles after an escape, trying to twist her strapped-down hands, to wring out her sodden brain. But even at her best it was difficult to trick her own self, profoundly wrong to call up an image of Pietro. And now, so far from her best, every pounding slam in shoves her against the crate's edge and every drag out pulls the fragments of her composure further apart. The sobs swell until she can't hold them back any longer, each one ripping out of her, tearing little bits from her insides, scouring its way out of her throat.

Worse and worse, as Scott's fantasy fades around the edges, as he has to fight back against the knowledge it's a dream, he chases it desperately, digging his fingers into Wanda's waist, snapping his hips as he gasps and the guards cheer over her. Soreness rises to searing pain, her throat burns as harshly around screams, and she desperately fights her own terror to keep from shoving him away, her fellow hostage.

Scott breathes, "H--?" as his orgasm overtakes him, sweeping the crumbled dream from his mind. He comes to himself flickering hot and cold all over with Wanda shivering under his hands, sobbing her heart out, his most cruel prison waking yet. And all Wanda can do is sob from her depths, as Scott babbles in dismay, shoving himself away from her as he gasps out apologies and useless reassurance, until the guards drag him away and she's alone with nothing but enemies and pain once more.

Noise ebbs and swells around her, and then she hears, horribly clear through her own crying, the reedy voice shout, "Whoa Wilson! So eager for that white puss-ay?"

"My teammate," Sam says, even more clearly, measured and slow, "is hurt, and needs medical attention. I am a medic. Let me help her."

The guards have a never-ending supply of jeers, but Sam thumps down beside her, not between her pinned legs. Wanda blinks open her blurry eyes, sobs still hitching through her, and she can't see anything but a warm dark blur between cold dark blurs, until the bright flash of Sam's smile.

"I'm gonna touch your head, okay?" and his broad hand settling light as a butterfly on her cheek, her ear, her tumbled hair. He brushes her hair back gently, not tugging even where it's stuck with tears to her face, and thinks as clearly as he said, _I kinda think you can hear me like this too, huh?_

Wanda can't stop crying. She can't even see, her eyes blurred into uselessness with drugs and weeping. But she can think her assent to Sam, can reach out for the connection he's wise enough to extend, can catch hold.

He checks her over, thinking to her each place he'll touch before he does, murmuring softly when he's not touching her skin. Wanda starts to sniffle down to calm, around the aches in her chest and between her thighs, the pains in her head and heart.

She starts, but the guards chatter over them and she can't shut her ears. "C'mon, sir," one says, "three for three."

Sam's hand is steady on the small of her back, but he shakes inside, furious, worried. Wanda thinks her hand in his, the comfort of twined fingers, and he pats her gently. _Clean you up?_ he thinks softly to her, but there's so much doubt beneath he can't hide though he would, though he's trying.

Wanda wavers, wobbling, and then the reedy voice falls between them. "I dunno, sir, it might come out looking like a monkey."

Sam tenses down to the ends of his fingers.

"Do you ever shut up?" in the booming voice. "Anyway, we're not breeding her for her looks, though they're not bad, at that."

Wanda's heart jacknifes in her chest. This isn't just mere cruelty, how captors treat prisoners. They intend for her to conceive. They want her baby, she can't have a baby, she can't breathe inside this jacket, she's not even twenty-one, she can't breathe, she can't breathe!

A hand settles on her face, lighter than the wind. "Shhh," Sam murmurs, hums, thinks. _Shhh. It'll be okay. Steve will get us out. Somehow._

Wanda is not so certain. They don't even know if Steve and Barnes survived. But Sam is certain, and she grabs hold of his faith, steadying herself against her own shuddering terror.

"What's up, pussycat?" asks a guard, pressure tightening on Wanda's ankle, and Sam blazes inside. _Have to try_ , he thinks and she feels him look up.

"Get your boot off her," Sam says in that same quiet clear voice. "You too. I need to turn her over."

"Oh, please," is the response, and joint-creaking pressure until she gasps, hot pain radiating up her legs. "We've already let you have too much foreplay."

"I don't think Lang wants another hole in his head," puts in the reedy voice, and there's a distant dismayed shout from Scott. "Do you?"

"She's our teammate," Sam answers. "We'd all die to protect her." Wanda's heart flutters in shock to hear it said aloud, so calmly, so surely. "I need to turn her over. So let her up."

"So you can untie her jacket?" challenges the reedy voice, and Wanda feels Sam's suppressed flinch from the muzzle shoved into his face. "Want us to see if your brains are brown too?"

"Shooting me here doesn't really fit with that attempted escape narrative," Sam replies. Wanda lets her body go limp and struggles up through Sam's mind to look up through his eyes at the flat-faced owner of the reedy voice, sneering down at him but with uncertain eyes.

"Back off, guys," booms the loud leader from behind them. The guards step back, getting off her ankles, and the absence of pain surges through Wanda's blood like ecstasy, making her sob deep before she can be silent again. "Wilson, finish up," he adds. "Little bitch's doing fine, and you're going next." Sam has a calmly defiant response to that, but the leader forestalls it with, "Because we've got your teammates at gunpoint, and you'd do anything to save their lives too, wouldn't you?"

Something small but important snaps inside Sam, Wanda can feel him sag under the inevitability. She thinks her hand in his till he can feel it instead of her skin, thinks her acceptance, and he thinks back in regretful gratitude. "You and your goons are a disgrace to the uniform," Sam answers, but it's just a brave surrender.

"Ah, the power of friendship." The leader laughs, all the guards snicker. "I bet you're piss poor at poker," he tells Sam. "Flip her over if you want, but don't even think of untying her. Just get to it."

Wanda's limp legs don't want to cooperate, muscles twitching randomly, but Sam gathers her up and leans her back against the crate, and she draws as deep a breath as the jacket will let her. "I'm sorry," he murmurs as he skims his hands up her calf to curl light, investigative fingers around her sore ankle. "Does this hurt?"

Wanda's heavy head lolls sideways as she does her best to let Sam feel what she feels from her ankle only. He can feel it's undamaged, but other sensations bleed through and he winces and she feels all the more raw. "Shh, it's okay," he tells her, gently pushing away before the feedback loop drags them down into each other's pain.

Someone groans as Sam tends to her other ankle. "Got a foot fetish?" an impatient voice demands.

"I dunno," someone else answers, "she does have pretty feet."

"Not the point!"

"He just wants to see that big black dick in action," says Reedy Voice, and that makes Sam flinch, inside where they can't see, but all the same. Wanda especially hates Reedy Voice, infinity upon infinities. Cautiously, careful to avoid the previous feedback loop, she shares this with Sam, and feels the bright ghost of his smile.

Then, as she catches the glimmer of his small plan, his hands leave her. She hears a whispering scrape of cloth on cloth, and an outraged shout of "Hey, that's government property!" as a ripping sound snarls.

"Taxpayers got cheated," Sam says as he reaches around and behind Wanda, and cloth briefly brushes her cheek.

"Good think -- uh!" Clint calls over thunks of blows. Curling his hand behind her nape and his arm around her waist, Sam lifts Wanda back onto the crate and she feels the fabric beneath her bare bottom, thin but welcome over the hard surface.

Radiating regret and protectiveness, Sam gathers Wanda's knees over his elbows, cradling her hips with his hands. _Ready/okay/all right?_ he thinks, and she sends him assent, letting her head tip back over the crate's edge, trying to give in to gravity again. He nudges her, horribly intense, she tenses all over and he swears under his breath, stroking soothingly with his thumbs, and enters her as gently as he can.

Again it hurts to be pushed into, now with bruises stretching, the sheer rising ache momentarily drowning out the nasty cheers falling like grenades all around them. Flailing for something, anything else to notice, Wanda grabs hold of that helpful deafness and does her best to hold it over both their ears, and Sam puffs a breath, thinks gratitude and asks, _how would be best? Slow and easy? Fast?_

 _Get it over with,_ Wanda tells him, struggling not to hear, to ignore what she feels, to breathe.

 _Need a little help_ , he tells her ruefully, and _hang on_ , as he starts moving, a steady pace but too fast to keep from jostling her. Each thump threatens to shove a scream up Wanda's throat but she pushes down on it, concentrates on the light gentleness of Sam's hands, sends him that warm comfort back. It might be kinder to send him a full fantasy as she gave Scott, but she can't bear to be left alone again.

Maybe the thought bleeds over, maybe not, but Sam murmurs, "No one else, baby girl. Just you and me here." Wanda's eyes flash open in shock, though all she can see is blobby darknesses, and Sam reaches for her, thinking or saying, _come here_. The move folds her in half but the increased discomfort is nothing to the warmth of his hand curling behind her nape and his forehead resting on hers. Several more thrusts, smooth though speeding, until he shudders through his orgasm. For a moment it feels almost, almost...

Pietro flickers through her thoughts, and Sam's breath brushes her cheeks like down, and Wanda's tears this time are warm rather than scalding.

But she loses her hold and the horrible audience rushes back in, cooing sarcastically around them.

Bracing himself, Sam pushes up and hoarsely snaps, "There's your damn show." He gathers Wanda up against his chest as he eases out, her cheek over his heart as he kneels back. "Now get her some water and let me make sure she's okay."

"I'm sure such tender loving didn't hurt her at all," says the loud leader.

"Didn't even wake her up," put in Reedy Voice, and Wanda opens her eyes just to glare. "C'mon, playtime's over." Hands descend on them, then, and though Sam grunts with effort they peel his arms away from her, grab her around the waist and chest and rip her away from him, limp as a sack in their indifferent hold.

"Get him a new shirt," orders the leader. "Hey, prisoners! Just remember, the next shift won't believe you, so don't even bother tattling. As for you," as the wall hits Wanda's back, as rough hands drag trousers up her legs, as the roughest of all grabs her clothed crotch and squeezes until the radiating ache pushes a gasp out of her, "there we go." The loud leader lets go, his voice rising as he stands. "Nice and juicy. Tomorrow you'll treat all my boys as nicely as your criminal pals there, and we'll keep it up until you give us a gifted baby we can raise the American way. You get all that, Maxi?"

After everything he's just had her put through, his words wash over Wanda, horror leaving its reservation to return later. Slumped half-upright against the wall, she rocks her leaden head back; her vision wavers in and out of focus, and she catches an impression of a jowly face, snub nose, the particular glint of unsympathetic eyes.

She'd spit at his feet if she had the moisture to spare. Deliberately, with what strength she can summon, she presses her lips together and pokes out her tongue at him.

He just laughs. She didn't expect anything else. "Don't give me ideas," he says, and pushes shut the glass door of her cell.

Wanda slumps sideways into a heap on the floor, limp and blank and so very tired, aching from her sinuses to her ankles and so many places in between. She lets the shudders come and go, unresisting, drifting.

Eventually thoughts float through her mind, memories of Clint's trembling voice and Scott's earnest hands and Sam's steadiness, how each of her teammates tried to help her, pulled like gems from muck. Eventually, as the lights are dimmed, night brought to them, she scrapes together some coherence, even a few warming scraps of defiance.

Almost dispassionately, all her pains seething low, Wanda considers tomorrow. So the leader thinks she'll submit to his men, that she'll let them breed a miracle child from her. She lies on her side, wept dry, and shifts her fingers side to side in their rigid gloves. The jacket and the drugs keep her powers fenced into her body, but she still has them, has herself. All her life she's fought to survive, but perhaps now is the time to unmake herself, especially if she can bring one of the guards to oblivion with her. Hopefully the reedy-voiced one, or the loud leader.

Hopefully in a way to spare her teammates, her friends, her companions in these ordeals. They would die for her, Sam said. Perhaps she can die for them. Perhaps she might see Pietro again.

It's a grim plan, but it's something more than waiting like an inert object. Wanda lets thoughts go again, sinking away from herself into sleep, and dreams of swirling red.

***

As it turns out, the next day Steve comes for them.

***

It took Steve 128 hours to return for his team and seventeen minutes to fight his way through the Raft to find them, and in that time something terrible happened to them in here. Scott's silent and pale, Clint's eyes are sunken, and as soon as Sam's checked both of them over he turns and slumps against Steve's side, as if all of the gravity he's ever defied has found him here to weigh him down.

And Wanda... She sits on the floor, head bowed and hair lank, wrapped in a straight jacket and overly large pants, her feet bare and her ankles bruised red. Anger swells in Steve's chest -- she's a _kid_ for God's sake, and none of them deserved being thrown in this dungeon -- and he takes a couple slow deep breaths before he pushes open the cell door and kneels beside her.

Her head barely shakes when he calls her, she looks almost completely out. He's considering lifting her when Sam says low, "Touch her."

"Huh?" Steve looks up at Sam leaning against the doorway. At least he's folded his arms, an echo of his usual alert stance.

"Her cheek," Sam advises. "Skin on skin. They drugged her, but..."

"Yeah." Steve got a briefing from Natasha -- ironically, SHIELD developed the cocktail used to restrain 'individuals with abilities' -- but it didn't include the cruel restraints. Steve wonders if she knew. He wonders if she knows whether Tony knows about his recent teammates being thrown in an oubliette. If he had a hand in this.

Steve stops wondering. He's let Wanda into his mind before, since he decided to trust her, during training. He swallows hard against the slight hesitant squirm in his belly, slides his hand gently beneath the curtain of her hair, and settles his palm to her cheek.

She fills his mind with warm red, like a sunset or a sunrise, with his name, with the feeling of a smile as her cheek curves a little beneath his hand. _You came for us._

"You betcha," he tells her, trying not to ooze guilt everywhere, trying to smile. He feels a brush of fingers across his, and a sense of effort, and Wanda's head flops back on her neck, her eyes cracking open enough to show a glint of awareness between her lashes.

Her cheeks are red, too, and her eyes are puffy. She looks like she's been crying. Steve wants to go back, wake up one of Ross's guards, and pummel out the details of whatever they did to his team. Too late he remembers to tamp down on his violent thought, but Wanda doesn't flinch. Her eyelids flutter, shut and half-mast and shut and open, and she looks at him, even if with hugely blown pupils. "Natasha got me an antidote," he tells her, and though she blinks slowly her presence flutters in his mind, a translucent red butterfly in his head. "Here, I just --"

 _She's here?_ Wanda thinks before he lets go.

As he pulls out the syringe he nods vigorously. "Yeah, in the jet, and --"

 _Forgave?_ meets his next touch, his hand wrapped behind her nape.

"We're all friends," Steve ... oversimplifies. "Nothing to forgive."

Wanda _looks_ at him, with all her imperious disbelief, and he has to smile a little. _Do it,_ she orders before he can start his canned explanation, so he shuts up and looks to Sam.

Sam just waves him on. In the background, Scott is standing very still while Clint methodically stomps apart a yellow plastic crate. Time to get Wanda on her feet and everyone out of here. Steve uncaps the needle and carefully pushes it through the thick canvas into her arm, counting to twenty as he slowly presses down the plunger.

Wanda inhales like she hasn't breathed in a week, and blinks rapidly, and says in a rusty voice, "I want this jacket off."

"Okay," Steve says, capping and stashing the syringe, "Lemme just --"

"Never mind the fastenings," Sam says from the doorway. "Just rip it." Wanda tips forward, and Steve brushes her hair aside, grabs hold, and tears the jacket down her back --

\--revealing no shirt, not even a bra, nothing but pale, bare skin. Steve yanks his hands away -- she's naked under the jacket, what the hell, how dare they do this to a prisoner, a girl? -- but Wanda's tugging and shaking, trying to push her arms forward as she gasps, "Off, off."

Sam steps in, reaching for the jacket with one hand and his shirt collar with the other, but Clint's right behind him, blue over-shirt already in hand. "My turn," he softly tells Sam, who turns and looks at him with those eloquent eyes, and nods.

Clint kneels at Wanda's other side, tugs the jacket from her arm and helps her into his shirt so efficiently Steve sees nothing blush-worthy. He helps pull the jacket away from her other arm, Clint helps her into the other sleeve, and Wanda grabs his shoulders as he stands. "Thanks, Cap," he murmurs, slowly looking up over her head, finally meeting Steve's eyes.

The words still hit like body blows. "Not Cap anymore," Steve answers. "But it can wait. Right now we need out of here."

Wanda turns and wraps her arms around Steve's left. Sam slots in behind him, taking his right hand. "I can walk," she tells them. "Let's go."

***

The fastest way out is through the control room, littered with unconscious guards. Nat's stingers are pretty effective on non-enhanced humans. Every so often Scott or Clint step on rather than over someone, but Steve figures they have their reasons.

Sam stops. Wanda stops. So, Steve stops. They're looking down at a particular guard with a particularly nondescript yet unpleasant face. Wanda looks back over her shoulder, where the shift chief lies slumped in the doorway; then she unwinds her arms from Steve's, reaches back, and makes a little high grunt of effort.

Steve decides not to watch. "I just want everyone to know," he says as lightly as he can, "I went to a lot of trouble not to kill anyone on my way in. " He looks at Sam instead, into his clear brown eyes, edged with new stress lines and the purplish remains of a bruise.

Sam looks steadily back at him, their fingers interlaced, as they listen to the sound of a prone body dragging across the floor, as Wanda huffs a few more times and red flickers at the edge of his vision. "We appreciate it, Steve," Sam replies, and gently squeezes Steve's hand, palm to palm.

"All done," Wanda says almost brightly, a little wickedly, and Steve looks.

No one's dead. The guard who drew their attention lies face to face with the shift chief, their hands tucked through each other's belts, a glint of steel between their zippered flies. "You handcuffed them together by the balls?" Scott asks, the first Steve's heard him speak.

"Nothing they can't handle with the power of friendship," Wanda says, too brightly, and Steve looks over at her. She stands with her head high, little flickers of red light ruffling through her hair as she trembles, looking down at the two guards she clearly has a very good reason to have a grudge against, and the curve of her mouth is almost entirely unlike a smile.

Scott steps up beside her and hesitantly offers her his hand. She looks at him for a moment, reaches out and folds her hand into his. Clint comes up on her other side and she tucks her arm through his as well. They walk forward together out of the control room, Steve follows with Sam down the hall and up the ladder, and when they reach the hangar Wanda pushes open the irised ceiling, letting in the sunlight.

**Author's Note:**

> https://hydratrashmeme.dreamwidth.org/2271.html?thread=4810719#cmt4810719
> 
> Text of prompt: Wanda in The Raft Baddies at The Raft - secretly Hydra, gross random guards, morally bankrupt Ross, whoever - want to breed Wanda. To see how she'll react they start things off by making the rest of Team Cap take turns. Not picky about details but having some or all of our guys crying would be A+. If you can work in that this has happened before (with her brother?) I have a nice plate of moldy cookies to offer you.


End file.
